Everyone Comes to Hang Chew's
by Sueg5123
Summary: For those of you who know old movies, you must remember this… A man, a woman, a wartime setting, intrigue and danger...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : For those of you who know old movies, you _must_ remember this…

 _With the coming of religious fundamentalism, nationalistic fervor, and oppressive dictatorships, many eyes throughout the world turned hopefully, or desperately, toward the freedom of western nations. Cyprus became the first point on a compass to liberation for persecuted and displaced peoples fleeing violence in a Syrian war. But not everybody could get to Cyprus directly, and so, a torturous, roundabout refugee trail sprang up. Damascus to Zahle, then a land journey north and west to Tripoli. Here, the fortunate ones, through money, or influence, or the intercession of relief agencies, or simply through luck, might obtain exit documents and flee to Cyprus, and from there to Istanbul or Athens or elsewhere in Europe or the Americas. But the others wait in Tripoli – and wait – and wait…_

Neal Sampat Ugarte stole another closed-fist drag from his vape and spied Will McAvoy sitting across the room. He hurried over and clutched at a chair.

"I've been hoping to see you tonight, Will." Uninvited, he seated himself and waved to a waiter. "Have a drink with me?"

Will said nothing and did not even appear to notice the other man had intruded his reverie.

Corrected in his assumptions but still far from chastened, Neal finally shrugged. "I forgot. You never drink with—well, I'll have another."

The waiter hurried off to comply.

"Too bad about those couriers, eh?" Neal began, fiddling absently with his e-cigarette.

Indifferently, Will lit a real cigarette and took a deep pull. "They got a lucky break. Yesterday, they were just two stringers scrabbling for a story. Today, they're the honored dead."

"You're a very cynical person, Will." Neal smiled. "I know you object to the business I do—"

"If I gave you any thought at all."

"—But, Will, the established authorities _need_ my help to maintain order—"

"Oh? Is there honor in collaborationism?"

"Such a harsh term. No. Not honor. But there is safety, and sometimes cash." The very thought made Neal smile.

Will grunted in response.

"In any event, after tonight, I am through with the whole business." Neal withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket and put it on the table. "Do you know what this is? Something even you have never seen—letters of transit signed by Trudeau—cannot be rescinded, not even challenged. Tonight, I'll sell these for more money than even I have ever dreamed of, then _addio_ , Tripoli." He kissed his fingertips in a gesture of vehemence, then leaned back triumphantly.

"You know, Will, I have many friends here but simply because you despise me, you are the only one I trust. Will you keep these for me?"

Will lightly touched the envelope where it lay on the table. "For how long? I don't want them here overnight."

"Just a few hours, until my contact arrives."

Will visibly weighed his choice, then finally scooped up the envelope and tucked it into his own breast pocket.

"Thank you, Will." The waiter returned and Neal peeled off a few bills and told him, "I'll be expecting some people. If anyone asks for me, send them to the bar."

oooo

An hour later, Will was again at his table, noting who came and who left, and nodding occasionally to staff who held up questionable currency or excessive bar tabs for approval. He flipped his heavy Zippo lighter along its edges, but didn't use it to light another cigarette, although he wanted it.

Self-denial was something Will McAvoy liked to cultivate anymore.

He'd stashed the letters of transit entrusted to him by the gangly and fawning Neal Ugarte. He knew there was blood at the bottom of this caper and already regretted having promised to care-tend the documents for even a few hours.

 _Uh oh._

A familiar slight uniformed figure approached with another man.

The Prefect of the _Forces de Securite Interieure_ (ISF), a generally corrupt public official who was incomprehensibly quite likable and full of _bonhomie_.

Captain Charles Skinner.

"Ah, Monsieur Will. We are very honored tonight. We have Major Reese Olikara visiting from Damascus."

Will barely registered any response.

"We will join you." Skinner motioned to a waiter. "Champagne cocktail, _s'il vous plait_. _Deux_. Or—" he arched an eyebrow, "perhaps you will join us, Will?" At the deafening silence, Skinner shrugged. "Ah, just the two then."

Will grudgingly acknowledged the third man.

"Major Olikara. From Damascus." He repeated, considering the implications for his establishment. "Is this a social visit? Because I'm not sure you have any authority—"

"Oh, Will, must we speak of things like authority?" Skinner pooh-poohed. "Officialdom will wait, so let us consider this a social call for now."

Olikara smiled thinly and removed a small notepad from his jacket. "Monsieur Will. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Unofficially, of course."

"Make it official if you want."

"What is your nationality?""

Will looked amused. "Drunkard."

Skinner tittered nervously and offered, "That makes Will a citizen of the world. I have that passport myself."

But Will added, in a matter-of-fact tone, "I was born in Nebraska, if that'll help you any. On a road outside a town outside a town outside Lincoln."

"I understand you came to Beirut—well, to this part of the world—about the time the civil strife caused by the terrorists began."

Will made a noncommittal gesture.

"Who do you think will win the war?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Olikara smiled his unfunny smile again. "But you haven't always been so neutral, have you?" He consulted his notes. "I have a dossier on you. William Duncan McAvoy, American. Left his own country in 2007—the reason is a little vague." He cast a quick glance up to catch any reaction.

But Will made no expression.

"Why are you here, Monsieur Will," Olikara asked with deliberate emphasis on each syllable.

"My health. I came to Tripoli for the waters."

Captain Skinner barked a laugh and sputtered, "Waters? What waters? We're near the desert."

"I was misinformed." Completely deadpan.

Olikara didn't appear to be buying Will's attempt at sarcastic humor, so he flipped a page of notes and brought out the big guns. "We know of your associations in Hama and what you did in Homs."

"Do say."

With a nervous glance between Olikara and Will, Skinner cleared his throat. As local authority, it was really more beseeming that he take control of this situation. "There are many exit visas sold in this cafe, Will, but we know that you have never sold one. That is the reason we permit you to remain open."

"I thought it was because I stocked your favorite bourbon."

" _That_ is another reason. However, there is a person who will arrive in Tripoli soon. This person will offer a fortune to anyone who will furnish exit documents."

Olikara raised a hand to silence the captain. "The point is—we wish to check up on anybody who can be of use to us. Tonight, a journalist by the name of Laszlo will come here in an attempt to buy an exit visa for himself and his confederate. They cannot be allowed to do so."

At last, Will felt compelled to give a greater accounting of himself. "You yourself just acknowledged that I don't sell visas. I run a saloon. So what is this shake-down all about?" He cast a sharp glance at Skinner.

"Laszlo and his accomplices broadcast the foulest lies from Aleppo until the very day we liberated the city, and even then they continued to smuggle stories to other media outlets. We do not intend to let it happen again."

"Of course, one must admit that they have shown great courage." Skinner's intrinsic magnanimity got the better of him and the words slipped out.

Olikara returned a glare and ground out, "I admit only that they have been clever. They have slipped through our net for the last time. They will not depart Tripoli. And if you are thinking of warning them, don't. They cannot possibly escape."

Will pushed away from the table dismissively. "I stick my neck out for nobody."

"A very wise foreign policy," Olikara agreed, not disguising a tone of menace.

"You'll excuse me gentlemen," Will added, rising. "Your business is politics, mine is running this saloon."

oooo

"Elliot—I thought I told you never to play—"

In response to his boss' ire, Elliot Hirsch ducked and shifted the piano stool to the top of his upright, pushing both away with great alacrity.

As he departed, Will froze, seeing now what he'd missed in his anger at the piano player.

 _Her_.

Perennially underfoot, Captain Charles Skinner sauntered over, oblivious to Will's shock.

"Well, you were asking about Will and here he is. Mademoiselle, may I present—"

"Hello, Will," she said, without acknowledging Charlie's preamble or presence.

"MacKenzie," Will acknowledged, his eyes retaining astonishment after he had recomposed his features.

"Oh, you've already met?" Captain Renault's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Well, then, perhaps you also know—"

But she beat him to the punch.

"This is Mr. Laszlo. James Laszlo."

The young man accompanying MacKenzie rose and extended a hand to Will. "Jim. Please." He offered a determined smile despite Will's stony silence. "One hears a great deal about Will McAvoy in Tripoli."

"And about the Laszlo organization everywhere."

"Two Cointreaux, please," Jim said to the waiter who hovered nearby. "Will you join us?"

Captain Skinner doffed his cap with a knowing smile. "Monsieur Will never drinks with customers. Never. I have never seen it."

Will made a gesture to the waiter that the others couldn't quite make out, then took a chair opposite. Within seconds, two waiters returned with the drinks Laszlo had ordered, in addition to four coupe glasses and a sweaty ice bucket containing a heavy green bottle. A third waiter materialized to dislodge the cork with a discreet _pop_ and wisp of vapor.

"Well! Veuve Cliquot Blanc de Noir 2007! Precedent is being broken and in high style, as well." Skinner gave an appreciative glance to the bottle and then one of pleased surprise to Will before sinking eagerly into a chair. "Tripoli welcomes you to Lebanon, Mr. and Mrs. Laszlo," he said, unaware of the wince that crossed Will's normally expressionless face. "We hope you have a pleasant stay," he added dryly.

"Thank you. We haven't always encountered graciousness from local authorities." Jim and MacKenzie exchanged an amused glance. "Although I must correct you—we are not—this isn't like that. We are colleagues, true, and we have recently spent time working together in Aleppo, before it fell, but we aren't together—not like that. Besides, this may not be common knowledge, but 'Laszlo' is simply a by-line, a _nom de guerre_ —a convenience and a necessity for reporting in troubled times. The real name's Harper. And she—"

"MacKenzie McHale," Will finished, softly.

Even world-weary Skinner looked impressed at the sudden slip in Will's impassive mask.

Will wet his lips and tried a more overtly sociable tact. "I congratulate you on your work. Both of you."

"Thank you. We try."

"We all try. You succeed."

"As you might imagine from your previous acquaintance, Mac is both the brains and the heart of the operation. I'm really her assistant." Jim smiled and took a sip of his Cointreau, looking around the cafe. "Still, it is very good to be here—to be away from where we were—"

MacKenzie had averted her face during the entire exchange, conscious that she was being scrutinized.

"I was advised you were the most beautiful woman ever to visit Tripoli," Skinner said, leaning closer and lifting a glass of wine in salute. "Not only is that a gross understatement, but it completely omitted the fact that you are one of the most impressively—"

"May we speak of something else, please?" she interrupted. She threw a glance over her shoulder then back to Will. "I see Elliot is still with you. There's no one in the world who can play _As Time Goes By_ like he does. I daresay the three of us haven't been together since the day the Syrian Army got to al-Waer."

"I remember it perfectly. The army wore green. You wore blue."

She plucked at the bush jacket she wore and forced a light laugh to counter Will's steadfast stoicism. "I'll wear blue again when they march out. Unfortunately, being on the run necessitates traveling lightly—"

"You are always lovely, Mac." Will's involuntary admission surprised them, him most of all, and it was another illustration of how he was honestly moved and trying desperately not to show it.

She recovered first. "It would be nice to reminisce about the old days with you, Will. Perhaps if we return tomorrow night, you will be here?"

Both Skinner and Harper were now exchanging quizzical looks, acutely aware of the subtext between the others but unable to breach decorum to comment upon it.

"I never make plans that far ahead." Cautious Will had returned, determined to avoid further lapses.

A man in a tuxedo, evidently the croupier or a floor manager, appeared and handed Will a clipboard. "Some Syrian official desires credit for the _chemin de fer_ and I told him you would have to authorize it."

Will scribbled on the paper. "Okay, Don, but only up to ten thousand."

"And Miss Sloan wishes to know if she can sing _La Marseillaise_ tonight. She says she wants to send a message to those—"

"Messages are for Twitter. You tell her that for me." Will pushed the clipboard back to the dark-haired man. "Okay, she can sing. But take that damn guitar away from her. Sounds like a cat in heat."

Don nodded and withdrew.

Harper tossed off the last of his drink and got to his feet.

"Mac, I hate to be the one to say it, but it's late and we have a deadline."

She nodded deferentially then turned and faced Will with the most direct gaze of the evening. "I hope we did not overstay our welcome."

"Not at all." He tried to stare her down but softened. "I hope—I hope you'll return tomorrow. MacKenzie."

A waiter sidled by and placed a small tray on the table near Harper. "Your check, monsieur."

Will reached for the check and tore it in half. "My party," he informed the waiter.

"Another precedent gone," Skinner marveled as he watched the two journalists navigate the crowded room to the exit. He resumed his seat and poured another fortifying dose of champagne as Will finally lit the cigarette with which he'd been tempting himself.

"How extravagant you are, Will, throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce."

But Will said nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a quarter past three now.

Will sat alone at the bar, a glass and a bottle of bourbon in front of him, a packet of cigarettes within arm's reach. The Zippo was in his hand, cartwheeling through the usual acrobatics.

He filled his glass and threw back his head to take the liquor.

Headlights from passing traffic scrolled across the walls of the room.

Behind him, a figure approached in the eerie light.

"Hey—uh, Will."

Elliot.

Will did not respond, just tilted the bottle to refill the glass.

"Will."

Then, finally, "Yeah?"

"'S'kinda late. You thinking about getting some sleep soon?"

"Not right now."

"Are you planning to go to bed in the near future?"

"Nope."

"Are you—"

"Not sleepy," Will cut him off. He threw back another jolt of the bourbon.

"I'm not sleepy, either." Elliot took the stool from the top of the piano and put it on the floor and sat on it. He lifted the cover to reveal the piano keys.

"Have a drink?" Will pushed the bottle forward.

"Not right now—I'm good." Elliot paused to noodle on the keyboard, put down a few chords in a minor key. Something suited to the hour and the mood.

"Okay," Will returned with petulance. " _Don't_ have a drink."

"How about we get out of here, Will? The Blue Parrot's probably still jumping—a friend of mine is playing, and he's got a sister you just wouldn't—"

"A sister?"

Slow smile from Elliot. "Well—perhaps not that close of a relation—"

"No, sir. I'm waiting for a lady."

Elliot's fingers fumbled over a change from a diminished seventh and he looked down. "I don't think that's the—"

"She's coming back. I know she's coming back."

"How 'bout we take the car and drive all night? Get drunk? I know a roulette wheel in El Mina that—"

"Shut up and go home, will you?" Will still hadn't turned around. "First, they grabbed Neal Ugarte, then, _she_ walks in." Slight pause. "Well, that's the way it goes," he slurred, with the logic of a drunken man. "One in, one out." Another pause. "Hey, Elliot—if it's 2012 in Tripoli, Lebanon, what time is it in New York?"

"Uh, my watch stopped, Will."

"I bet they're asleep in New York. I'll bet they're asleep all over the world." Will's fist closed and he brought it down on the bar-top. "Of all of the gin joints in all of the world, she walks into _mine_."

He dropped his head into his hands.

Several minutes passed, and Elliot again began pressing familiar patterns on the ivories

"What's that you're playing?"

"Just a little something of my own."

Will made an indistinguishable grunt. "Stop it. You know what I want to—"

Elliot's hands rested. "No—I don't—"

"You played it for her and you can play it for me."

Elliot took a deep breath. Remembering the song wasn't the hard part— _how could you forget it?_ —but what was it gonna do to Will?

Before Elliot could protest further, or find the right fingering, there was a sound from the other end of the room. The door opened and a woman's figure stood at the threshold, light pouring in around her. She lingered there a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the darkened club, then made her way forward. As she did so, Elliot slipped away, grateful not to have to witness this confrontation.

"Will—Will, I have to speak with you."

Will brought the lip of the bottle to his glass. "I saved my first drink to have with you, Mac. Sorry you missed it—but you can have this one."

"No, Will. Not tonight."

" _Especially_ tonight, don't you think? Celebrate your—resurrection."

She took the barstool next to him and studied his face, searching for some hint of what he was thinking, what he was feeling—

— _As if she couldn't guess—_

But she couldn't fathom the expression he wore or the edge in his voice. When he lifted the glass to his lips, she whispered, "Please," more from wanting to get through to him than trying to dissuade him from the drink.

He set the glass down, untouched.

"Why did you have to come to Tripoli? There are other places."

"I wouldn't have come, if I had known you were here. Believe me, Will, it's true."

"Funny how your voice hasn't changed. I can still hear it—'Will, I'll go with you any place. You go on ahead, find a place for us, and I'll follow as soon as—'"

"Please, Will," she choked, looking down, "don't."

"Six hundred thirty-seven days. I counted every one of them." He shook a cigarette out of the packet and lit it, drawing deeply. "I did go on ahead. I found a place for us, where we could continue our work. And you—you never came." He took another drag to punctuate his sentence. "I tried—all my contacts, I prevailed upon everyone I knew—"

"Will—"

"No, you gotta wait for the 'wow' finish. A guy sitting at the plane terminal with a comical look on his face, because his insides have just been kicked out." He exhaled a long stream of smoke and ground the butt into the ashtray. "Finally, after months, I see you on the newsfeed. I'd imagined you dead, or captured—but, no, you'd just moved on to a new lead." He put a sarcastic inflection on the last two words.

"Can I tell you a story?"

"Has it got a 'wow' finish?"

Her teeth grabbed her lower lip. "I don't know the finish yet."

"Maybe one will come to you as you go along."

His words silenced whatever she'd intended to say. Slowly, she rose and pushed away from the bar.

"Tell me, who was it you left me for? Was it this Harper guy, or were there others in between? Or aren't you the kind who tells?"

When he lifted his eyes to check her reaction, she was gone.

oooo

The heat and the stink of Tripoli were already apparent by eleven the next morning.

Will scrawled his initials on a clipboard and passed it back to the wharf-rat who stood, expectantly, nearby. He squinted down at the woman, owner of The Blue Parrot.

"Leona. I see my shipment is in. I'll take it with me."

"Don't be in such a hurry. I can have it sent over later. Have a drink with me."

"I never drink in the morning, and every time you send my shipment over, it's light by a coupla cases."

"Carrying charges," she bounced back. Then, a pause. "There's something I wanted to talk over with you, anyhow. The news about Neal Ugarte upset me—"

"You're a hypocrite, Leona. You don't feel any sorrier for him than I do."

She made a _D'uh_ face.

"Of course not. What upsets me is the fact that he's been arrested and no one knows where those letters of transit are."

Will watched the harbor scene disinterestedly. "Practically no one."

"If I could lay my hands on those letters, I could make a fortune." She eyed him, appraisingly. "And I could accommodate a partner in this venture—" she let the words trail off before resuming. "I have a proposition for whoever has those letters. I could handle the entire transaction—find a buyer, get rid of the letters—take all of the risks—for a small percentage."

He said nothing.

"Will, I'll put my cards on the table: I think you know where those letters are."

"You're in good company. Skinner and Olikara probably think so, too. That's why I came over here personally to sign for the shipment—to give them a chance to ransack my place." He shook a cigarette out of a packet and flicked the Zippo. Before the flame caught, however, something across the crowded narrow street took his eye. "I'll—I'll, uh, get back to you, Leona."

He crossed the cobblestoned lane with alacrity, dodging jitneys and yammering tradespersons and frenetic tea-runners.

At a perfumer's stall, MacKenzie stood examining a row of unlabeled cobalt and amber vials. She reached for one and loosened the cap.

"Yes, yes—Amouage—" The vendor nodded approvingly and pointed to a small placcard that read, "680K LBP."

Will came up behind her. "You're being cheated."

Plainly startled to see him, she hurriedly placed the stopper back in the bottle and turned to acknowledge him. To the merchant, she offered a parting, "Thank you."

The man's eyes lit up. "The lady is a friend of Mister Will—for friends of Mister Will, there is a discount. Only 200K LBP."

"I'm, uh, sorry I was in no condition to receive you when you called on me last night."

"It doesn't matter."

The perfume shopkeeper was smilingly insistent. "For _special_ friends of Will, there is a _special_ discount—"

Finally, she waved the man away, and, with a reinforcing glare from Will, the perfume seller withdrew.

"Why did you come back? To tell me why you—"

"Yes."

"Well, you can tell me now. I'm reasonably sober."

"I don't think I can, Will."

"Why not? After all, I'm the one who got stuck with your unused airfare—I think I'm entitled to know."

"The Will I knew in New York—in Washington—in Beirut— and in Damascus—I could tell him. He'd understand. But the man last night, who looked at me with such—such hatred—well, I'll be leaving Tripoli soon and we'll never see each other again."

"Did you run out on me for him?"

"You can believe that, if you want to."

She turned her head and took a step away from him, seeking to end this discussion.

"All the same, someday you'll lie to him—Laszlo or Harper or whatever his real name is."

She crossed the street and didn't look back.

oooo

Captain Charles Skinner of the ISF glanced in the mirror. He straightened his tie and adjusted the epaulets of his uniform.

"Mr. and Mrs. Laszlo," a clerk announced, leading MacKenzie and Jim into the small and stuffy chamber.

Skinner made a perfunctory bow to the lady.

"I am delighted to see you both. You rested well last night?"

"I slept quite well, thank you," Jim said, already shifting his open collar in the heat.

"That's strange—nobody is supposed to sleep well in Tripoli." Skinner shrugged in mock consternation.

The obsequious pleasantries grated on Mac. "May we proceed with business, please?" she asked, betraying a degree of frosty formality.

"Of course, Madame, with pleasure. Won't you be seated?"

Upon taking the proffered chairs, they immediately saw Major Reese Olikara, already seated.

"Good morning, Mr.—" he hesitated, then smiled a slow, small smile. ""May we dispense with, what you call, the _noms de guerre_? Eh, Mr. Harper?" When they acquiesced with nods, he continued. "We must not mince our words, for I wish for you to plainly understand me. You have stoked riotous uprising throughout my country with your seditious broadcasts. So far, you have been lucky to elude arrest and prosecution—but now you have reached Tripoli and your travel documents are not sufficient to allow you to leave. It is my duty to see that you remain here until we can compel your extradition to Syria to face judgment for your lies."

Jim looked up through shaggy bangs. "Whether or not you succeed is, of course, contingent upon your convincing the Lebanese government to—"

Olikara barked a short laugh. "Not at all. Captain Skinner's signature is necessary on every exit visa." He swiveled to look at the other man. "Captain, do you think it is possible that Mr. Lasz—Mr. _Harper_ and his friend will receive visas?"

Skinner pursed his lips in a gesture of helpless bureaucratic impotence. "I am afraid not. My regrets, Monsieur. And _Mademoiselle_ ," he added, meaningfully, nodding to MacKenzie.

"Well, perhaps we shall learn to like it in Tripoli," she said, putting her hand on Jim's sleeve. "You won't dare interfere with us here. This is sovereign Lebanon, and violation of neutrality would reflect adversely upon both the country and Captain Skinner."

Skinner shrugged. "Insofar as it is within my power to—"

Olikara inspected his manicure. "Of course, there is another option—"

"Yes?" MacKenzie knew it would prove a tease or a taunt, but she couldn't ignore it.

"You know the names of the leaders of the insurrection—"

"The patriots," Jim corrected.

"The terrorist rebels," Olikara overrode. "If you will furnish me with their names and their whereabouts, you will have your visas in the morning."

"Plus, the honor of having aided the Syrian regime," Skinner interjected.

Olikara cast him a dubious glance, unsure from his tone whether Skinner was genuine or mocking.

"We spent four months in the siege of Aleppo. That is honor enough for a lifetime," Mac volleyed back.

Jim nodded and rose. "Is that all? May we go now?"

Olikara excused them with an impatient wave.

"By the way," Captain Skinner added, flipping papers on his desk in a deliberately officious manner. "Last night, you evinced an interest in Signor Neal Ugarte."

"Yes. May we speak to him now?" Jim was trying to hold his interest in check, so as not to draw undue attention to it.

"You would find the conversation a trifle one-sided. Signor Ugarte is dead." Skinner still hadn't looked up from sorting papers on his desk. "I am just making out the report now. We haven't quite decided whether he committed suicide or died trying to escape."

A door opened and Jim and Mac made for it, gratefully. As they exited, the clerk made another announcement. "Excuse me, Captain—another visa problem has come up."

"Show her in."

oooo

It was early evening by the time Will reappeared on the floor of his establishment. His floor manager spied him and instantly hurried over.

"Will—some uniformed men, boom, boom, boom, gave this check. Is it all right?"

Will scanned it and tore it up. "We'll make it up, Don."

"I hope so," Don sighed. "Our croupier had a bad night last night—not to mention all the damaged glassware and missing booze from the 'inspection' this morning."

Will nodded.

A dozen or more feet away, from the bar, a blond woman icily appraised him.

"Where were you last night?"

His eyes lit upon her before flicking away. "That's so long ago, I don't remember."

"Will I see you tonight?"

"Nina, you know I never make plans that far ahead."

Angrily, she turned to where Don still stood, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, and extended her glass. "Have them bring me another, Donny."

"She's had enough, Don. Call her a cab."

"Another," she insisted.

Don shrugged helplessly. "Love ya, kid, but he pays me." He took her forearm and led her away.

Will turned, only to find the ubiquitous Captain Skinner at his elbow.

"Perhaps I should pay a call on Miss Nina," he mused.

"Go ahead," Will said with all the detachment and ennui he could muster. He looked around and surveyed the activity of the club. All seemed in order, visually, but Don indicated there had been some damage. Across the room, Elliot had taken his post at the piano and started the jazzy first set.

"Say, that was some going-over your men gave my place today. We just barely got it cleaned up in time to open."

"Well, I told the major we wouldn't find the letters here. But I told my men to be extra destructive—you know how that impresses the Syrian Army." Skinner took a sip of his drink. "Will, I have often speculated on why you stay on here, why you haven't returned to the States. Did you abscond with intercepted national secrets? Did you allege some massive government conspiracy?" He brought his eyes up to meet the other man's and smiled slightly. "I like to think there was a woman. It's the romantic in me."

Will had pulled the Zippo from his pocket and was unconsciously turning it over in his hand.

"It was a combination of all three."

Skinner made a small noise and took another sip. He inclined his head to indicate Harper and MacKenzie entering at the far side of the room. "Ah. The pigeons have returned."

"Pigeons?" Will dropped his diffidence at the unexpected term. "What makes you—"

"Major Olikara is most determined to return them to Damascus. For either justice or retribution, depending upon your point of view. This is the end of the chase for the _Laszlo_ byline."

Will's eyes narrowed. "Fifteen thousand _mille_ Lebanese pounds says it isn't. Obviously, they've escaped tight places before."

"Make it ten thousand. I am only a poor corrupt government official." Skinner shrugged. "In any event, they will not escape Tripoli, not this time, unless to return to Syria."


	3. Chapter 3

MacKenzie felt hostile eyes upon them as she and Jim Harper followed the maitre d across the room of Will's _Café Americain_ to a surprisingly choice table. She cast a dubious glance up. "Are you quite certain—"

"Oui, mademoiselle." He ducked his head in deference to Jim as well. "Monsieur Will was most firm." He slipped menus onto the table and gestured for a waiter's attention.

Bouncing his eyes around the room as discreetly as he could manage, Jim picked up the menu and used it to hide his mouth. Just in case some observer could read lips.

"We need to talk about this, Mac. Signora Lansing thinks it may be possible to get an exit document for you."

"You mean, for me to go on alone?"

"Only for the time being, perhaps a month at most," he rushed to add. "I can be a distraction here for them, and you can go on—and I'll get out and join you—it won't take long, you know, and—"

She rested her forehead on the backs of her hands. "And if things were different, Jim—if there was only a visa for you and not for me, would you take it?"

"Sure, of course," he bluffed. "It makes no sense for both of us to be immobilized here. Of course, I'd go."

"You're a horrible liar." She peeked up at him. "Tell Signora Lansing we are only interested in two visas. Two," she underscored.

"You're being hasty, Mac."

"When have I ever been otherwise?"

A waiter joined them expectantly.

"Two cognacs, please." When they were alone again, Jim resumed. "She said something else, too. She wanted to know if we'd heard about Neal Ugarte—and wanted to remind me that the letters of transit were not in his possession when he was arrested. That means that they might—"

"Good evening." Suddenly standing at the table, Will braced his hands on the back of a chair and looked at his affable best. "The table's okay?"

"Excellent," Jim wowed. "Thanks."

"Good evening. You see, here we are again," Mac returned softly and with light amusement.

"I take that as a great compliment to Elliot's ability at the keyboard. I suppose he means to you—well, happier days."

"Yes. He does." The slight hesitation to her words underscored genuine feeling, communicating to him that she did, in fact, remember.

"I'll have him play some of the old songs for you."

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

Will picked his way through tipsy bar patrons and rushing waiters to where Elliot Hirsch sat behind his customary upright piano. Will whispered something to him, and Elliot abruptly changed melodies, shaking his head slightly as Will walked away.

He headed back across the room, but was intercepted by Captain Skinner exiting the gaming salon in the backroom.

"As I suspected, you are a rank sentimentalist, Will."

"Oh? What makes you—"

"A young lady I've had my eye on suddenly, inexplicably won fifty thousand _mille_ Lebanese pounds at the _chemin de fer_ table."

"Lucky lady."

"She doesn't know how to play. At all. And now I must make the financial transaction for her exit visa rather than a more— _personal_ —compact." Skinner _tsk_ -ed theatrically. "Why do you interfere with my little romances?"

"I thought you knew. I'm a rank sentimentalist."

Skinner laughed good-naturedly, graciously conceding the point. "Ah, well, I forgive you this time, but I'll be in tomorrow night with a breathtaking blonde, and it will make me exceedingly happy if she loses." With a parting smile, he walked away.

Will leaned back against the bar and shook a cigarette from his pack. Lighting it, he caught Don's eye and waved him over.

"How are we doing tonight?" inclining his head to indicate the door to the backroom.

"Fifty thousands fewer than last night." Don admitted wryly while tugging at his collar. "If you want to help the desperate ones, Will, you might at least give me a little heads up, so that I can build a bit of a profit cushion first. Plus," he added, his eyes shifting from side-to-side as he scanned the room, "I think the captain may have been a little suspicious."

Will allowed himself a short laugh. "Don't worry about that. And don't worry about the money, either—it's worth it in amusement value to save someone from Skinner's advances."

Emboldened by Will's words and unusual humor, Don straightened, and returned to work.

"McAvoy, I wonder if I could have a word with you?"

He squinted down at Jim, who was standing nearby at the bar, his eyes carefully averted in order to throw off attention from any would-be observers. "Go ahead."

"Isn't there another place—perhaps some place more private? It's a confidential matter, and rather urgent."

"My office." Will stubbed out his smoke and walked around the corner to a short flight of steps, the younger man following. Once inside, Will closed the door and gestured Jim to a heavy chair flanking the desk.

"What's on your mind, Laszlo?"

Jim winced. "I think the Laszlo cover has been effectively blown by now. So, it's just Jim now. And MacKenzie, of course." At Will's studied impatience, Jim dropped the explanation. "It was suggested to me by Signora Lansing that you—"

Will made a face at the name.

"—That you may have _acquired_ the missing letters of transit when Neal Ugarte was arrested here the other night."

Will's expression returned to impassivity.

Jim leaned forward, conspiratorially. "You have to understand how important it is that Mac and I get out of Tripoli. It's vital to the movement, to the lives of thousands and thousands of people, Syrians and people of all nationalities, that we remain free and continue to tell the world about the atrocities of the Syrian—"

"I'm not interested in politics. I run a bar."

"I was told that you have quite a record—that you worked for the United Nations Office of Legal Affairs, where you helped with the drafting of the Dayton Accords to end the Bosnian War. That you later served as a correspondent for Reuters and that you covered the Lebanese nationalists when they were trying to expel the Syrians."

"What of it?"

"Isn't it strange that you often happened to be the voice of the underdog, the conscience of society?"

"Yes, and I found supporting moral causes to be an expensive hobby, so I went into another line of work. I'm a better businessman than I ever was a humanitarian."

"Are you enough of a businessman to appreciate an offer of a hundred thousand euros?"

Will's lips twitched into a wry smile. "I can appreciate it. I just don't accept it."

"I'll raise it to two hundred thousand."

"You could make it a million euros, or three, and my answer will still be the same."

Visibly defeated, Jim slumped. "I don't understand. There must be some reason why you won't let us have them."

"There is. I suggest you ask your _traveling companion_."

"What?" Jim was confused.

"Ask MacKenzie." Will cocked his head to one side, listening to a sudden burst of cheers and clapping coming from below. "If that's all you had to talk about, Harper, then I need to get back to my saloon-keeping now."

oooo

"You see what I mean?" Major Reese Olikari hissed angrily to Captain Skinner, who stood at courtly if mildly insolent attention. "If Laszlo's presence in this café can inspire a demonstration such as the one we just witnessed—"

"It was a patriotic song sung in a bar attended by many drunkards." Captain Skinner sought to put this event in proper perspective. "I wouldn't attach much importance to it. Sobriety will remind them of the futility of protests."

Olikari held his silence for only a few seconds longer, then coldly commanded, "I advise that this place be closed at once."

"But I have no excuse to close it."

"Find one."

"But everyone's having such a good time," Skinner protested, himself (as ever) foremost in his thoughts.

"Yes, much too good a time. Close the place."

"As you order," Skinner conceded, touching the brim of his prefect's cap in a gesture of fealty that he didn't feel. He lifted his policeman's whistle and blew a shrill blast. Then, as the room stilled and all eyes turned toward him, he announced, "Everyone is to leave here immediately. This café is closed until further notice." He nodded to the armed gendarmerie. "Clear the room."

Will hurried downstairs and over to Skinner.

"Charlie, how can you close me up? On what grounds?"

Skinner thought for a moment then returned, "Will, I'm shocked— _shocked_ —to find that there is gambling going on here."

As Will struggled with his composure at such a blatantly false rationale, Don sidled up and handed a fistful of Lebanese pound notes to Skinner.

"Your winnings, Captain."

"Thank you very much," Skinner nodded and stuffed the money into his breast pocket. Then, resuming his position before the people in the establishment, he loudly called again, "Clear the room. Everybody out at once. Closed by Prefect's order."

Will and Don exchanged a helpless look.

oooo

As people streamed to the exits, Major Olikari noticed MacKenzie sitting alone at her table. He approached and leaned down.

"As you can see, Mademoiselle, it may not be safe for expatriated journalists like yourselves to remain in Tripoli."

"This morning, you implied it was not safe for us to attempt to leave."

"That is also true," Olikari replied, his tone low and unctuous. "But I can offer you a safe conduct to

Damascus."

"Damascus? Back to Syria?" She couldn't believe he was serious, or that he would ever believe she and Jim would ever consider such an option. Returning to Syrian control would be the end of their broadcasts, and very likely the end of them, as well. "That is out of the question."

He eyed her appraisingly. "Then, there can be only one other alternative for the both of you."

"And that would be—?"

"Protective custody here with the local authorities."

"Such as that given Neal Ugarte?" She felt bold enough, in this public place, to let him know she saw through the veneer of polite officiousness to the hostility beneath.

Major Olikari smiled thinly and pulled at his uniform blouse to straighten it. "Perhaps you have already observed that human life is cheap in Tripoli." He made a parting nod of his head. "Good night, Mademoiselle."

MacKenzie met his eyes, unflinching, even though she understood the threat concealed in his words.

"What did he want?" Jim asked, arriving at the table seconds later.

"To frighten me." She looked around the room. "What happened with Will, did he have—"

"We can talk about it later. Right now, we'd better leave with all the others."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** : Here we go, the penultimate chapter in my little mash-up between Newsroom and a classic old Hollywood movie. For any reader who's still with me, you'll find a detour or two from the movie in this chapter, preparatory for greater divergence in the final chapter.

"Sending it now," Mac said in a low voice as she uploaded the last segment of the multipart video.

At the window of the darkened hotel room, peering through the blinds, Jim made a small hum of acknowledgement. Then, satisfied no one on the narrow street below looked inordinately suspicious, he turned around.

"I'll wait for a few more minutes, just to throw off any particularly stealthy watchers."

She closed the lid of the notebook computer. "What did you find out from Will?"

"Apparently, he has the letters of transit—but no intention of selling them."

"Did he give a reason?"

"He told me to ask you. That's all he would say."

"Oh." It wasn't surprise, but more like understanding. In the semi-darkness of the room, she was glad Jim couldn't see her face.

He drained the bottle of water he held and glanced out the window again. "Well, anyone out there will think I'm asleep by now."

"I should be going with you," she said, echoing an argument they'd had earlier.

"Divide and conquer, right, Mac? You do the brainwork and I do the legwork, remember? Tonight is legwork, just a little deep background for the next story."

"But we know they're watching us, so it could be dangerous. Olikara is just waiting for an opportunity."

"Yeah." Jim was silent again for several long seconds. "Mac, I don't want to pry—but whatever it was between you and Will McAvoy—is it—"

"It's over. I killed it." He didn't have to see her to picture the sadness that had surely crossed her features. He knew her well enough by now to hear it in her voice.

oooo

There was a noisy whir and the calculator began spitting out soft quirls of paper across the desk.

"It looks as though you're in pretty good shape, Will." Sloan squinted at the numbers on the calculator tape before consulting a nearby ledger, her index finger drifting down columns to the final entry, _Balance_.

"How long can I afford to stay closed?"

"Not long. Two weeks, maybe three," she hedged. "Depends on the Accounts Payable and whether Leona Lansing is willing to take installments for the booze bill."

Will rubbed his jawline. "Maybe I won't have to—I mean, bribes have worked before—and Skinner isn't immune to them." He sighed. "In the meantime, keep everybody on salary."

Don looked distinctly relieved. "Thanks for that, Will. My landlord will be thrilled to hear it—I owe him money."

Will waved a hand. "Finish locking up, will you, Don?"

"Sure." Don and Sloan exchanged a glance. "Then we're going to the meeting at—"

"Don't tell me where you're going. You know I don't want to know."

"Zipped," Don assured him, making a gesture with his hand to indicate locking something. "Totally cut off—you won't hear a—"

At Will's sharp glance and Sloan's sudden elbow to the ribs, Don finally stopped making noises from his mouth.

Will left his two employees to extinguish the floor lights and he mounted the steps to his office and living quarters. Loosening his tie, he looked up to motion from the corner of his eye.

"How did you get in here?"

"The stairs from the street."

He finished pulling the tie, allowing it to drop to the floor, then looked at MacKenzie. "I knew you'd come around, but this is even earlier than I'd figured. Have a chair."

"Billy, I had to see you."

"' _Billy'_ again. I see. We're back in Damascus now." Stepping to the sideboard, he took ice from a sweaty bucket and dropped a few cubes into a glass. "Your visit isn't by any chance connected to those letters of transit everyone's itching to put their hands on? Seems as long as I know where those letters are, I'll never be lonely."

"Ask whatever price you want, but you must give me the letters. Please. Lives are at stake."

"I went all through that with your friend Harper earlier. It's no deal."

"I know how you feel—how you must feel about me—but, please, put your feelings aside for the greater good."

He took a deep drink of the whiskey just to feel the cauterizing burn in his chest. "Getting tired of hearing what heroic freedom fighters you and he are—what an important cause you're fighting for."

"It was your cause, too—once," she said, quietly. "In your own way, you've always been fighting for the same thing."

"Well, I'm not fighting for anything anymore except myself. I'm the only cause I'm interested in now."

"Billy—we loved each other—and I still—if those days meant anything at all to you—"

He made a harrumphing noise to make her stop. "I wouldn't bring up Damascus if I were you. It's poor salesmanship."

"Listen—Will," she appended, divining that the more familiar diminutive was helping to stoke his anger. "If you knew what really happened, if you knew the truth—"

"I wouldn't believe any truth you'd tell me tonight. You'd say anything to get what you want."

"You want to feel sorry for yourself," she countered. "With so much at stake, all you can think of is your feelings. One woman hurt you, and you take your revenge on the world. You're a coward—" she broke off and turned her back to him, shoulders sagging, head bowed. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, but you're our last hope. If you don't help us, everything we've worked for will die here in Tripoli."

He poured more bourbon into his glass. "What of it? I'll probably die here, too."

Then, turning back, he saw e turned back to H

the weapon clutched low in her hand.

"I tried to reason with you—appeal to the better nature that I know you still possess. But I must have the letters, Will. Get them for me."

He replaced his glass on the cupboard and eyed the revolver she had trained upon him, chest-level. "I've got them right here," he confirmed, tapping the breast pocket of his jacket.

"Put them on the table."

"No."

"Will, please. Put them on the table."

He could see the muzzle of the gun tremble as she adjusted her grip. "If this Laszlo crusade means so much to you, you won't stop at anything." They faced each other, quiet for long seconds, until he finally took a step nearer. "Here, I'll make it easier for you."

When she didn't respond, he took another step towards her. "Go ahead and shoot. You'll be doing me a favor."

There was a protracted pause, then a strangled cry, and her arm dropped to her side. When he reached for the pistol, she released it from nerveless fingers.

"I tried to stay away," she confessed, her voice beginning to dissolve to a wet, choking sound. "I thought I'd never see you again and how that would be better for you—and never know I was—"

He placed the gun on the sideboard, alongside the bourbon bottle, and then began walking her over to the sofa. Her hands latched onto his, and as he pushed her down, disjointed sentences continued to spill from her lips.

"They were coming for you—you were going to be their big prize, the captured western journalist, paraded as a warning to others before being beheaded. I couldn't let that—I had to do anything to get you away before—"

He dropped to sit beside her and she sagged against him.

"I knew that you wouldn't leave without me—so, that was the deception, that you would leave with promise of me joining you later—and I intended to, I did, but the riots started days later and—" She stopped, overcome with the recollection. "It isn't an excuse—but if you knew what I went through—if you knew how much I loved you— _still_ love you—"

"MacKenzie."

"For months, I had nothing—barely hope of surviving. Even if I'd been able to get word to you, it didn't seem fair to burden you with worry for me where I was. And I was frightened that you might try to come back for me—"

He would have. They both knew it.

"—I know that I'll never have the strength to leave you again."

"What about the letters of transit? You seemed to be pretty interested in them a few minutes ago."

"For Jim," she insisted. "To get him safely out of the country. His team was shot up in the battle for Anadan, and he was assigned to me. As things got too hot for me, he took on more of the reportage. He's been a friend, of course, but never anything more." She studied Will to make certain that part registered. "Once we adopted the pen name Laszlo, it stuck on him, personally. He's in more danger than he realizes. You'll see that he gets out, won't you, Will?"

"More self-sacrifice from MacKenzie," Will said dryly, his face shadowed enough in the dark room that she couldn't read him. "I thought you were dead. When you missed the flight, I knew something awful had happened. I told myself, you'd be on the next plane. Or the one after that. Two weeks of calling everyone I knew, calling in every favor—"

"I wanted to—"

"Yeah, I know. You did it for _me_. Give yourself a fucking medal for selflessness. Meanwhile, I got to imagine you dead in fifty technicolor poses."

She shrank and dropped her eyes. "I'm sorry, so sorry—I thought I was doing the right thing at the time—you were in real danger, Will—"

"We were _all_ in real danger, MacKenzie, _all of us_ , every minute we were in Damascus. But you were the only one who lied and made unilateral decisions—who to save, who to sacrifice. And you're still doing it—coming here tonight with a gun, wanting those letters of transit to save someone else."

She pressed her face into his shoulder. "I don't know what's right any longer. You have to think for both of us."

At that, he finally looked her in the eye. Sensing a pivotal moment, she moved closer, but he unexpectedly moved his head a fraction, so that her lips missed his and merely grazed his cheek.

"Will?" There was a long silence between them, which she ended by again prompting, "Will?"

 _Had she been so badly wrong in how she interpreted the moment?_

His voice was low. "Call me the other. You know."

It wasn't a hard leap to know what he meant. But she couldn't help being troubled by why he would request it. _Was he mocking her?_

" _Billy_ —?"

He brought his hand to her face and stroked her jawline with the backs of his fingers. "Yeah. That."

She stilled his hand and kissed it. "Billy, I can't fight it anymore. I ran away from you once—I can't do it again."

He didn't say anything but wound his arms around her and dropped his head along her neck, where she could feel his warm breaths. He pushed back again and moved his hands to her shoulder, then to her blouse, lightly caressing around the silk collar.

"Are you here for me tonight, or are you sacrificing for someone else?"

"I never stopped loving you." It was the only thing she could say now, the only thing she hoped he could take away from this meeting.

He took her wrist and pulled her up and through the darkened archway to the other room, backing her against the wall. There, without breaking eye contact, he began to push the topmost button of her blouse through its opposite hole.

"Billy," she whispered, confused by the juxtaposition of his gentle actions and his loaded words. Again, she stretched up to his face and, again, he deflected, turning just slightly enough to make his lips unreachable.

So, that's how it was. She realized he was making clear that he hadn't forgiven her. Whatever inevitable course she was yielding to now would not include forgiveness.

Meanwhile, his fingers moved lower, loosening more buttons. With access now, he reached around to unfasten her bra and fold it back, touching the full swell of her breasts. Her nipples were rosy and peaked, and he dipped his head briefly, brushing his lips over them, scraping with the rasp of his beard until she squirmed involuntarily.

Wordlessly, he tugged at the hem of the blouse and dropped both it and her bra to the floor. He unzipped the skirt and let it fall.

When she was naked before him, he appraised her slowly in a way that made her by turns pleased, sad, and—at last—uncomfortable. The intensity of his gaze seemed almost clinical, as if he was an observer more than a participant, but it softened somewhat when he sighted the one important change on her: five inches of puckered scar on her abdomen.

His eyes flicked up at hers, seeking explanation, before understanding that she already had given it.

 _If you knew what I went through_.

He moved closer and threaded his fingers through her hair, pushing it back and aside, then dropped his mouth to her shoulder, leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses and light bites. As strangely dispassionate as he seemed at first, he had now shifted back to the man she knew before.

If his intent was to keep her off-balance, he had succeeded.

He kicked off his own clothes and they both sank to the bed. He ran his strong hands down her length, then returned to center, _her_ _center_ , gently parting her legs and touching her cleft. Allowing memory and her responses to guide him, he began to touch her, find the nub of sensitized nerve-endings and apply familiar, deliberate pressure. She moved in response to his touch, making low sounds from the back of her throat. The only discernible word was, " _Billy_."

Every sigh she made reminded him how much he'd missed her. He wanted to take it all in at once, gorge himself on what his senses revealed: the sight of her, the scent, the taste, her soft gasps, the way she moved. It was all as he remembered.

Still wordless, expressionless, his eyes dark in the dim light of the room, Will moved on top and began to slide into her. She tried to help him, arching her hips up, but he seemed determined to proceed at his own maddeningly slow pace. He felt her, wet and hot and tight around him, and he pulled back just for the exquisite pleasure of thrusting back in.

His weight pinning her down, she couldn't move to help him except to tilt her hips a bit between the pistoning action. When she got the angle right and he got the rhythm right, she felt a familiar tensing and her breathing grew labored. Her arms looped under his, Mac's fingers vised his shoulders, the nails making what must have been painful scores on his skin, although he gave no sign of feeling it.

He seemed to shift his weight to one arm, bringing the now-free hand between them, where he massaged her clit with his thumb.

That pushed her over the edge, and he thrusted harder, feeling her contractions. Moment later, he came with a small groan, the first sound he'd made.

oooo

Hours later, Will woke to the sound of voices and shuffling feet below. Mac still slept, so he rose quietly, dressed, and went down the steps to the dark café. Two figures huddled at the far end of the bar.

"Don, what happened?"

"Infiltrators at our meeting. Started a disturbance, and that brought the police. All so carefully scripted, you know? We got out at the last minute."

"Sloan?"

"She got out, too. Went back to her place."

As Will came closer, he saw Don winding gauze over a dressing on Jim Harper's left hand.

"Just a little cut," Jim explained. "We had to get through a window in short order."

Will nodded and reached behind the bar for a bottle and a glass. "Here, this might help. A little antiseptic."

Jim nodded and poured.

"Don, come here a minute." Will took him around the corner to the foot of the stairs up to his office. "I want you to turn out the light in the rear entrance. It might attract police attention."

"Gary normally takes care of that—but, okay."

"Next—go upstairs to my office. _Knock first_. Tell the lady you're there to take her home. Use the back stairs to the street."

"Sure," Don affirmed, though it was evident he was a little confused now.

"I'll lock up down here." Will turned and went back to Jim, who continued to fuss with the bandage. "Close one tonight. Don't you sometimes wonder if it's worth all this?"

Jim finished his drink and squinted up at the taller man. "Might as well question why we breathe. If we stop breathing, we'll die. If we stop fighting injustice and disinformation, the world will die."

"What of it? Then it'll be out of its misery."

"You sound like a man who's trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe in his heart." Jim poured a second slug of the liquor and swirled it in the glass. "It's entirely possible that each of us has a destiny—for good, or for evil."

"Ah. Cosmic consciousness. Fate. Karma." Will paused, before continuing in his sardonic tone. "What are they calling it this year?"

"Making light of it doesn't make it less important, or less true. I wonder if you can see how you're trying to escape from yourself, and that you'll never succeed."

"You seem to know all about my so-called destiny."

"I know a good deal more about you than you might suspect. I know of your work in the past. I know of your work with Mac." He could see that that comment found its mark. "I know that she meant something to you once—and that you still mean, well, quite a lot to her."

"Because she talks about me?"

"Precisely because she hasn't."

Jim rested his forearms on the bar and leaned forward, staring contemplatively at the rows of bottles and glassware. "I'm not your rival, McAvoy. To her, you exist on a different plane than everything and everybody else. I started off as her acolyte, but I'd like to think we've become colleagues. We created Laszlo to be the lightning rod for the work we were doing and I began to step into the part to help shield her."

"Jesus. I'm tripping over would-be martyrs tonight," Will muttered under his breath. He pulled out his Zippo and began turning it over in his hand.

"Unfortunately, the Laszlo byline has angered the Syrian National Forces. So if you won't give me the letters of transit—all right. But I think we both want Mac to be safe. Use the letters to take her away from Tripoli."

Before Will could respond, a clattering sound echoed through the room and two uniformed gendarmes of the ISF marched to flank Jim.

"Monsieur Laszlo? You'll come with us. We have a warrant for your arrest."

"On what charge?" Will demanded.

"Captain Skinner will discuss that with the prisoner later. Do not entangle yourself in this affair, monsieur. It is none of your concern."

As the officers roughly placed restraints on Jim's wrists, provoking a wince when they aggravated his injury, Jim managed to look meaningfully at Will.

"What we were speaking of before—it seems that destiny has taken a hand now."


	5. The World Will Always Welcome Lovers

Will stared out through the louvered window of Skinner's office, looking at the late morning sun bleaching the street and the buildings across it.

"You haven't got any proof and you know it. Laszlo—Harper—whatever-the-fuck his name is—didn't break any local laws last night. This isn't Syrian-occupied Lebanon, you know. All you can do is fine him and give him thirty days. You might as well let him go now."

Captain Charles Skinner chuckled appreciatively. "You make such a compelling case for leniency, Will. One almost suspects you may have had a calling for the law." Returning his attention back to his desk, he signed several papers with a flourish. "In any event, I'd advise you not to be too interested in what happens to this young man. If, for example, you were to help him escape—"

"What makes you think I'd stick my neck out for him?"

"Because, one, you bet 10,000 _mille_ Lebanese pounds he'd escape. Two—" he smiled, "you've got the letters of transit. Don't bother to deny it. And you might do it simply because you don't like Reese Olikara's looks." He shrugged. "As a matter of fact, I don't either."

"All good reasons," Will admitted, tumbling the Zippo lighter in his hand.

"Don't count too much on my friendship, Will. In this matter, I'm powerless. Besides—I might lose the 10,000 pounds," Skinner smirked.

"Okay, I get the point. Yeah, I have the letters—but I intend using them myself. It's time to get out of this stinkhole." Will pocketed the lighter and leaned over Skinner's desk. "I'm leaving Tripoli tonight, the last plane. And I'm taking a friend with me."

"What friend?"

"MacKenzie McHale. That ought to put your mind to rest about my wanting to help _Lasz_ —er, Harper out of his jam."

Skinner leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed as he considered what Will had just told him. "You didn't come here to tell me this. You have the letters—you can fill in your name and hers and leave anytime you please. Why are you trying to make me think you are interested in what happens to Harper?"

"I'm not—not particularly, anyway. But I'm pretty interested in what happens for me and MacKenzie. I mean, I know we have a legal right to leave—but people have been held here in Lebanon in spite of their legal rights."

"Why would we want to hold you?"

"MacKenzie worked with Harper. She probably knows things Olikara would like to know." Will leaned forward. "Look, Charlie, I'll make a deal with you. What if, instead of this petty charge against Harper, you could get something big—something that would get him tossed back to Syria? Be quite a feather in your cap, huh?"

"Certainly." Captain Skinner allowed himself to momentarily savor the image Will summoned. "Syrian authorities would be most grateful."

 _Whatever that entailed._

Will shook out a cigarette, affecting nonchalance. "Then, release him. You be at my place in an hour, before the plane leaves. I'll have Harper there to pick up the letters—that'll give you the grounds to make the arrest. You get Harper and we get away."

"A clean getaway," the other man mused, momentarily caught up in his own thoughts. "A new start—a beautiful companion—no Syrian overlords—" the latter phrase obviously one with significance for Captain Skinner, as well. His voice trailed off and he sat silent for a moment before the gears began to turn again.

"A tempting scenario. Even for me." He shook himself back to the present. "But there's still something about this whole thing that I simply don't understand," he quibbled. "Mademoiselle McHale is not without her charms, I fully agree—but why her? Why now? You've been immune to every woman that I've—"

"She isn't just any woman." The succinctness settled it.

"I see." Skinner hesitated. "How do I know you'll keep your end of the bargain?"

Will lit his cigarette then huffed a short laugh, a rare instance of genuine amusement from a normally taciturn man. "Trust me, Charlie. You won't be displeased by the outcome."

Skinner shook his head in anticipatory nostalgia for something that hadn't yet happened. "I'll miss you, Will. You may be the only one in Tripoli with fewer scruples than I."

"Hardly a compliment."

"Well, I meant it as such."

Will nodded over a drag. As he exhaled a cloud of smoke, he said, "Pull off your watchdogs and let Harper go. I'll set it all in motion."

oooo

"Should we draw up papers or is a handshake good enough?"

"It most certainly is _not_ good enough—but since I'm in a hurry, it'll have to suffice."

Leona Lansing clucked sympathetically. "Leaving this war behind—returning to America—you're a lucky man."

Will never registered the compliment, instead reminding her, "My agreement with Elliot is that he gets 25 percent."

"I happen to know he gets 10 percent," she harrumphed, "but he's worth the twenty-five."

"Plus, Gary, Don, and Sloan stay with the place or I don't sell."

She smiled and spread her hands in genial concession. "Of course. It wouldn't be the same club without them."

"And don't forget you owe the club five cases of bourbon. You'll need it when Captain Skinner pays his calls."

"Yeah. I'll remember to pay it to myself."

oooo

"You're late."

Will stubbed out his smoke and squinted up at Captain Skinner, in full uniformed regalia complete with sidearm. "And I asked you to kennel your watchdogs, so I hope you didn't come with a party," he added, glancing behind the other man's shoulder.

"I'm alone." Skinner chuckled appreciatively and shook his head. "This place will never be the same without you."

At that, Will leaned back and allowed himself a wry smile of his own. "That's for certain. But I've spoken with Signora Lansing. You'll still win at the baccarat table."

Skinner made a slight bow. "A comfort to know." Pause. "Is everything ready?"

"I have the letters right here," Will tapped the breast pocket of his jacket.

From across the room, they heard the front door rattle and their eyes met.

"They're here. You'd better wait in my office."

Once Skinner had slipped around the corner and, presumably, up the stairs, Will strode to the door and threw the bolt. Jim Harper and MacKenzie slipped in, each laden with a bag and each offering a furtive glance behind them as Will closed the door.

"Were you followed?"

"Nothing to indicate that," Jim said, "but old habits die hard."

"Wariness has sort of become ingrained in us by this point," Mac added, though it seemed apparent that she was just as wary now of Will and this encounter as she had been moments before on the streets of Tripoli.

Leading them back to the bar area, where a single dim light shone, Will immediately noticed that the rolls of gauze around Harper's hand had been replaced by an adhesive bandage but that he still seemed to favor the hand as he balanced a dufflebag.

"You need help with that?"

"Thanks, but I've got it. ENG equipment—electronic news gathering—takes a lot of it to do what we do. But I guess I don't have to tell you."

Will made no response but grabbed the bag and tossed it on a nearby table.

Mac forced a smile. "Will used to—that is, I remember once when he had to carry both the equipment and an associate, who had rather stupidly fallen and twisted her—"

"We don't have time for reminiscences," Will cut her off. "Chances are, either Skinner or Olikara had you tailed regardless of the precautions you took. How about check that window one more time, Laszlo?"

"Harper," Jim corrected affably, moving to the opposite side of the room, toward the window.

Mac put a hand on Will's sleeve and leaned forward meaningfully. "He thinks I'm leaving with him," she whispered.

"You didn't tell him?"

"No—I—I—it seemed like I was abandoning him. We're doing the right thing, aren't we, Will?"

"I still don't see anyone," Jim piped up from the window, where he peered through a slit in the blinds.

"He'll find out at the airport. The less time to think, the easier," Will reassured her. "Trust me, Mac."

Eyes bright, she nodded her assent, just as Jim shambled back. He fumbled with a piece of paper from his pocket.

"There's money—I have an account number for a transfer—to pay for the letters—"

"Keep it. You'll need it in Cyprus or wherever you're headed next." Will pulled the papers from his pocket and set them, portentously, on the bar in front of the others. "Here they are. They're blank, so you'll have to fill in the names and passport numbers, then sign—"

"Victor Laszlo, you're under arrest," thundered Captain Skinner, who had seemingly materialized from nowhere. He had drawn his weapon and trained it in the general direction of the three of them.

"My name's Harper—" Jim countered, a little testily, "and what's the charge?"

"Accessory to the murder of two Canadian journalists from whom the letters were stolen." Skinner passed his weapon to Will so that he could reach for the handcuffs on his belt, all the while _tut-tutting_. "You're surprised about the perfidy of my friend Will? The explanation is simple. Love, it seems, has triumphed over—"

Skinner's eyes detected the shift in the direction of the weapon's business end.

"Not so fast, Charlie. Nobody is going to be arrested—not for a while yet, anyway."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Definitely," Will agreed. "Now, sit down."

"Put the gun down, Will."

"I don't want to shoot you, Charlie—but if you take one more step—"

There was a protracted pause.

"Under the circumstances, I will sit down." Captain Skinner laced his fingers and obeyed.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Will prompted.

"I wonder if you've thought this through, Will," Skinner began with the patronizing tone of a reasonable man.

"I have. And now I need you to call the airport and smooth the way. Number's on the pad." Will wagged the muzzle. "And remember, this is pointed right at your heart."

"My least vulnerable spot, I assure you," Captain Skinner returned in a voice laden with ennui. He picked up the receiver of the landline phone Will nudged toward him and keyed in a series of numbers without a glance to the notepad. "This is Captain Skinner of the ISF. There will be two letters of transit for the Cyprus plane, and I want no trouble about them." He listened. "Yes, yes. Good." He dropped the phone back to its cradle and rolled his eyes to Will.

"Everything taken care of, then," Will said, raising the muzzle from the target and, seemingly, removing Skinner from the prospect of immediate harm. "My car's outside. Let's go. And you're coming with, too, Charlie. Makes it _more_ official that way."

oooo

"Engine's idling on the east runway. Visibility, twenty-one and a half kilometers. Light ground fog. Ceiling unlimited."

The airport flunky lowered his clipboard, his recitation to the uniformed captain of the ISF now complete.

Captain Skinner affected a careless wave. "Thank you. Now send someone with Monsieur _Lasz_ —Harper, and help him put his bags on the plane."

The command merited a dip of the head so obsequious that Will marveled it didn't also include a clicking of heels.

"This way please, sir."

The airport functionary took both bags and Jim, with a laconic glance back, loped away behind him.

Will put heavily creased papers in front of Skinner.

"Why don't you fill in the names, Charlie? That will even make it _official_ - _er_."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" Skinner managed, still wearing his perpetual expression of private amusement. "May I assume the first name I am to write is Harper's?"

"It is," Will confirmed, watching intently as Charlie scrawled on the form.

MacKenzie moved closer, brushing against Will and looking up at him.

With fanfare that indicated the completion of the first letter of transit, Skinner looked up expectantly. "And hers is the second name, correct?"

"Will—no!" Mac protested. "This isn't what we talked about, this isn't—"

He put his hands on her upper arms. "Shh, Mac—do you have any idea, any real understanding, of what you'd have to look forward to if you stay here with me? Chances are, we'll both wind up in a Lebanese or Syrian jail—"

"I'm afraid Major Olikara will insist," Skinner added confidently.

"You're saying this only to make me go." Distress and betrayal were still evident in the pitch of her voice. "Will, please—"

"I'm saying it because it's true, and we both know it." He brought one hand up to caress her cheek. "We got everything back last night, everything we'd lost before, but most particularly, you reminded me that there's still a need for—for, well, for cockeyed humanitarianism, or something like that. You've always been the better journalist—the better person—hell, the better everything—of the two of us. "

"Last night you said—"

"We both said a great many things last night. You said that you wanted me to do the thinking for us. I've done a lot of it since then. And it all adds up to you getting on that plane—"

"I won't leave you—not this time—"

"Mac, I'm shit at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't make a tiny blip on the radar of life. I've been hiding from myself for the last couple of years but you made me realize that I've got a job to do, too. Where I'm going, you shouldn't follow. What I've got to do—well, you've already done it once, and I couldn't begin to ask you to do it again."

At Jim's approach, Mac and Will stepped apart.

"Everything in order?"

"Yeah. Wheels up in ten minutes, so we should probably—" He looked expectantly to Mac.

Suddenly, there was a commotion behind them and Major Olikara, his uniform disheveled from the hour and the speed of his departure, demanded, "What was the meaning of that phone call?"

No wonder Skinner hadn't referred to the number Will had given him! He'd used the opportunity to tip off the Syrian officer.

"Monsieur Laszlo is about to depart on the Cyprus plane," Skinner replied, deadpan.

"Why are you just sitting here?"

"Ask Monsieur Will," Skinner returned with a nod.

Olikara spun around and, seeing Will raise his pistol, decided to gamble.

 _Saloon-keeper. Nothing but another soft expatriated American_.

He reached for the phone.

"Drop it."

"You haven't the nerve, McAvoy. You're interfering in things far beyond your ken."

"I was willing to shoot Captain Skinner and I'm willing to shoot you."

The Syrian seemed to snarl and spoke into the phone, "This is Major Olikara of the Syrian Forces. Get me the tower."

"Put the phone down, I'm telling you." Will leveled the weapon and took a deep breath.

But the actual shot, when it came, originated from a different direction.

Skinner very carefully replaced the revolver on the table and backed away a step. The four of them stared at each other, surprise and reappraisals all around. On the tarmac between them, the crumpled body of Olikara was still and silent.

Two breathless gendarmes appeared, their expressions begging orders from their captain.

"Major Olikara has been shot." He said flatly, then waited two beats. "Round up the usual suspects."

After they had fled with their orders, Skinner folded his arms and said, with barely concealed irony, "There is still the matter of the name on the second letter of transit, Monsieur Will."

"Make it, _Charles Skinner, Captain, Forces de Securite Interieure_ ," Mac interjected, moving to stand where she could see him write. "I think you need an exit strategy just now."

As if a light bulb suddenly went on inside his head, Jim caught the import and began to build a head of steam to object.

"Jim, there's something you should know. I'm staying." She locked eyes with Will. "We're still a story without an ending. Will and I have unfinished business—"

"Are you insane?" Jim asked, shifting his indignation to Will. "It isn't safe for her to go back."

"You kept her safe the last two years. I can keep her safe for what comes next." He moved to stand next to her, slipping one arm around her waist.

Captain Skinner, having completed the second paper, made a smug noise. "I was right.

You _are_ a sentimentalist, Will. And not only that—but something of a humanitarian, as well." He looked a little admiring.

Will made a face. "You better hurry, the both of you. You'll miss that plane."

Mac pulled Jim into an embrace. "New dateline, Jim. Don't screw it up," she whispered, blinking back unshed tears.

He swallowed and just held her eyes for a long time, debating the folly of further argument. Finally, he conceded. "Roger that. And I'll see if I can throw off the bag with the ENG before we take off. If you're planning what I think you're planning—" he cast an uncertain eye at Will, "you'll need it. And welcome back to the fight."

Skinner, meanwhile, had divested himself of his belt, epaulets, and cap. He ripped one sleeve of his jacket. "Must look sufficiently stateless and pursued in order to request asylum," he explained. "I haven't a passport with me."

Finally satisfied with the destruction to his clothing, he looked first to Mac then to Will. " _Bon chance_."

"Good luck to you, too," Will said, tapping his watch to show the importance of time. Then, as Skinner and Harper walked off, he called after them, "But that doesn't change our bet. You still owe me 10,000 Lebanese pounds."

"I'll have it for you when we next meet."

The figures of the two men finally disappeared into the fog.

Will pulled out his Zippo and began turning it over in his hand. "I guess you know this probably won't be pleasant for either of us. We'll be hounded by the ISF if we stay here."

"So perhaps we should take a trip—"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Northern Syria is too dicey now. Perhaps we should see what's left of Daraa in the south? After all, it was the birthplace of the revolution. Plus, it's near Irbid—Jordan," she added at his blank look. "Hotels. Museums and universities and culture. Transportation hub. _Sanctuary,_ if needed."

"Already found mine. Sanctuary, that is. I'm not letting go this time."

"Sounds like a beautiful relationship."


End file.
